Chapter Text
MADEREN SYSTEM: NEUTRAL TERRITORY
4.76 MILLION LIGHT CYCLES FROM: [REDACTED]
The ash in the bar tray had been smoldering a lot longer than what was considered polite, but Wheeljack would be fragged in the helm if he let his last cygar burn out without a bit of a fight first.
Besides, ‘propriety’ and 'super-sleazy-off-world-bar’ don’t tend to mix unless he was the one making the drinks. That being said, the energon draft tasted like it had been brewed from his own cygar ashes, scraped from the tray with a palette knife and flung unceremoniously into a distiller.
It was only mild exaggeration on Wheeljack’s part; it wasn’t like Maderen had any live veins running under the planet’s surface, and you’d be laughed at then swiftly removed from whatever establishment that had your patronage if you so much suggested importing the good stuff. Infrastructure? How quaint. Eons of intergalactic war tended to shatter even the most robust trade networks, and Maderen was far from luxurious by Cybertronian standards.
They would’ve been gone by now if that were the case.
So, Wheeljack isn’t exactly surprised that his bar tab is astronomically high for piss-poor high-grade. Honestly, he’d charge a whole slag of a lot more if he was running the place from the simple fact alone he was Cybertronian and they were not. Four million stellar cycles of war also tended to erode any good will established with other planetary civilizations—organic or otherwise—if you could believe it.
He’d gotten used to the stares and the glares and the frequent confrontations that tended to revolve around that pesky little crest stamped on his armor plating, like a dent he couldn’t buff out. It had been easier with Wreckers, in the early days at least. He missed the days where he didn’t have to worry about allies and enemies and borders and whatever other slag that the Autobot insignia brought with it.
Nah. Whatever moral superiority the Autobots’ claimed to uphold had already been secured by the Wreckers long before, and they didn’t have to bluster about it. Wheeljack certainly didn’t have to wear a tacky badge that made him feel like he’d just sealed his own death warrant in Autobot red—
“—Hm. Autobot red. How archaic! My contact told me to be on the lookout for that badge, for business purposes, of course. I’d ask for your designation, but I don’t think that'd be very necessary, now would it?”
His cygar droops in his mouth. Autobot red. Slag that Autobot red.
“It’s Wheeljack. Not that I think you care. You’re here for business, aren’t ya?” There was no point in hiding his designation now; there hadn’t been for a long, long time, when there were enough Cybertronians to warrant hiding from. Besides, if this mech—because he was a Cybertronian—really wanted him dead that badly, he’d want to be on first-name basis first. He pushes the cygar to the corner of his intake. “You got a name, partner? Or does your ‘business’ prohibit you from disclosing finer details?”
“Hm. Information isn’t cheap, ‘ partner, ’” The mech hedges, before inviting himself to sit down at the bar stool next to him. His vocalizer drops lower. “Though, considering how difficult it is to come across new clients, your goodwill is partial credit in and of itself… It's Swindle. Not that I think you care, either.”
“Well, Swindle, that’s where you’re mistaken. Names make things like these go along much smoother, y’know. Mutual trust leads to mutual transaction, and all that slag. You know how it is.”
Wheeljack smirks and takes a long drag of his cygar, careful not to let the long cylinder of ash fall from the end. “So, you got the information or nah?”
“Yes, yes,” Swindle asserts while he waves away the hazy cygar smoke drifting his way. His wide purple optics dart from left to right while he squirms in discomfort. “Do you have the agreed upon… ah– asset in exchange?”
“I wouldn’t be here without it, now would I, partner?” Wheeljack says as his digits brush the ‘ asset ’ hooked securely to his pelvic belt. He’d be lying if he said it would be easy to part with his sticky grenade; he had grown to appreciate the process of creation in his time alone, even with inventions as simple as a fraggin’ grenade. He could make another one with a bit of time, of course, but this grenade would never be the exact same as its predecessors, nor its successors. It was special and that had to mean something. Even if it was destined to explode in a fiery burst of shrapnel.
He shakes his helm. It didn’t matter. It’d be worth it, in the end.
He finds his optics lazily scanning over Swindle’s frame. He wasn’t much of a looker, but Primus , was that blaster on his servo a beauty. His jaw falls slack and he’s forced to catch his loose cygar in between his dentae. He pulls his servo back up on the tabletop, resting his helm casually on his palm. “Now, hold on there, partner. That’s a mighty fine toy you’re slingin’ around. What’s the specs on that beast?”
Now, Wheeljack could tell from the width of the muzzle flash alone that Swindle’s own ‘asset’ could do serious damage to anything short of the Nemesis itself, but Wheeljack didn’t exactly come here to make enemies nor did he think there was any harm in starting a bit of… small talk. Primus knows it’s been quartexes since he’s seen a fellow Cybertronian, and even longer if you count the ones that didn't want to eviscerate him on the spot.
“Now, even my goodwill has its limits, my friend, and I’m just not sure that I can divulge that kind of information. From one weapons connoisseur to another, of course.” Despite this, Swindle’s optics gleam with interest and that’s when Wheeljack knows he’s already won.
“Hm. Would some high-grade change your mind, then?”
“I’d say you were on the right track.”
Wheeljack is already calling over the organic bartender for another round, prompting an angry glare that most certainly meant that he was no longer welcome. That’s okay. He didn’t plan on sticking around for much longer, and judging by the look of approval Swindle flashes at him, the arms dealer would be following after him.
“You know… I get the feeling we’ve overstayed our welcome. How’s about you and me take this transaction back to my ship? The environment’s certainly preferable, if a bit cramped.” Wheeljack taps his cygar against his tray and the dying cinders flicker back to life with renewed vigor. Wheeljack smirks and holds out his servo. Whaddya say, Swindle?”
Swindle’s optics dart between Wheeljack’s hip and his servo, optics wide with a growing hunger. He catches Wheeljack staring and flashes him a coy smile that did all the talking for him. He shakes Wheeljack’s servo with his right arm, giving him a full view of the absolute beauty of a gun. Wheeljack would take his time exploring that, for sure. He’s earned it.
Wheeljack takes one final drag of his cygar, savoring in its crisp finality, and promptly crushes the end against the tray. The cinders at the bottom reach a burning climax and die just as quickly with nothing left to fuel it. The final vestiges of smoke waft from the tray.
“Alright, partner . Let’s get to business, shall we?”
******
Wheeljack rouses to a warm berth. That familiar dip of the berth tugs his lip plating into a gentle smile, and he sits up to admire Bulkhead’s still-offline form with a tired, but fond optic. He rolls his neck cabling and works his sore arms with a languid stretch, spinal strut delicately arching with the motion. Suddenly, a sharp pain radiates from his side, and he drops his servos to grip his chassis with a wince.
Right.
“... You really should let the docs on-field look at that, y’know.”
Wheeljack jumps and whips his helm around to face a wide-eyed, online Bulkhead staring at him with fond optics of his own. Wheeljack feels his faceplates warm, then waves it away with a dismissive scoff.
“Psh. I already picked out the shrapnel and sealed the wound up with one of my uh–’borrowed’ soldering irons. Just a little sore, is all.” Bulkhead flashes him a look of doubt—no, of sympathy. It flags a line of code in his systems designated for his fear response and he has the strong urge to flee. Instead, he sets his jaw and puts on a coy smile, just for Bulkhead. Afterall, he was fine.
“Besides, there’s only one other mech that knows my frame just as well as I do and it sure is slag ain’t the half-rate medics they’ve got stationed in this dump.” Bulkhead’s soft optics widen to the size of Cybertron’s twin moons. This time, his smirk is genuine as he slinks a little closer and presses a chaste kiss to Bulkhead’s slack jaw. “Aw, the truth can be painful, can’t it, big guy?”
“You cut that out,” Bulkhead says with a soft laugh as he pushes Wheeljack’s frame away in embarrassment.
“Cut what? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bulk. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Bulkhead lets out an exasperated huff, those twin moons beaming down on Wheeljack with so much fondness that it made his spark twist in its casing like a knotted wire.
“You know…” Bulkhead starts, twin moons waning with a look of cursory darkness. “I think there is something that we oughta talk about. I just wanna rip off the bonding sealant now, y’know?”
A sinking feeling pools in his chassis and seeps his glowing spark in dark oil. Again, that incessant flag—telling him to retreat, to flee, to lash out— pings in his HUD. It’s tempting to accept.
“Go on, Bulk,” Wheeljack says instead., smoothing over that slick oil with a lazy smirk. “I’m all audial fins.”
“It’s well…” Bulkhead taps his servos together and sighs. It was almost cute if Wheeljack wasn’t about to combust with dreaded anticipation. “I just want to know… what are we?”
His HUD pings again before he gives himself to the sinking darkness.
******
Wheeljack onlines his optics to an expansive void, and in that brief span between sleeping and waking, he thinks he might be drifting alone in open space. He jolts upward and cracks his helm against the low ceiling of the Jackhammer’s ‘’ berthroom’, if you could even call it that, and falls back onto his berth with a groan.
That fragging viewing window was going to be the death of him.
He turns on his side and checks his internal chronometer. He had finally departed the Maderen System, but he was still about four megacycles from the designated coordinates he had managed to wring from Swindle after…
Whatever. He didn’t even get the specs on his blaster anyway.
He huffs and sits up (carefully), then shakes off the after-recharge fog clouding his systems like smoke. He eyes the control panel of the Jackhammer and frustration immediately chases away his initial fear; he had been stupid to even try to sleep now, certainly not when he was currently flying on autopilot through backwater, neutral territory currently unknown to him.
He doesn’t return to berth. There’d be no point in that. Sleep didn’t come easy to him anymore. It hadn’t in stellar cycles.
He sits his aft in the Captain’s seat— where it should’ve been this whole time —and blinks at the endless dark pulling at the edges of his cockpit glass. It felt as if Wheeljack might be sucked into the void if he leaned any farther forward in his chair, like his spark would be submerged and snuffed under its crushing, roiling weight. He grips the steering wheel tight and shuts his optics even tighter.
There was a time in his life when he believed space to be beautiful. He spares a glance at the empty passenger seat, and he feels his spark sink, its edges skimming those inky depths. On impulse, his digits graze his utility belt, searching for the grounding companionship of a grenade that was no longer there. His frame feels lighter at the realization, yet his spark dips even deeper.
He takes a shuddery in-vent, pinching the bridge of his nasal plating. At this point, he knows it would be pointless to reach for a cygar.
Stupid. He was being stupid.
He could always make a new one once he got back to Earth. Earth. With Seaspray in tow. The seat wouldn’t be empty by the end of the solar cycle. He wouldn’t be alone.
Wheeljack can picture it now: Bulkhead would smile, big and wide like he always did, once he sees the Jackhammer break that ugly little mudball’s cloudline. He would haul aft to the landing site like he always did, waiting for Wheeljack to touch down. He would wait for him to extend the landing ramp like he always did, only to stop in his tracks as not one, but two ‘bots emerge from the threshold.
He would bring Wheeljack and Seaspray into a crushing hug just like he always did. Wheeljack would complain, but squeeze back anyway. Seaspray would join in.
They’d be a team again. Just like they always had been.
He wouldn’t stop at Seaspray, of course. Even the dreaded clutches of open space couldn’t hide his boys from him for much longer. The Wreckers would live again, if he had anything to say about it; and by Primus, he had a whole slag of a lot to say once Seaspray’s salty aft was parked in the Jackhammer, where it belonged. Safe and sound.
He taps his utility belt. He could bear the emptiness for a little while longer.
******
MADERAN SYSTEM, OUTER MADEREN BELT
4.53 MILLION LIGHT CYCLES FROM: [REDACTED]
Wheeljack recognizes the signs of a struggle before the Jackhammer’s mapping system even registers his proximity to the desired coordinates; contrails of spent energon streak through the empty air while shards of metal— Cybertronium— drift among the charred asteroid field.
His fuel runs cold in his lines, his grip on the steering wheel tightening with the coil of dread spring-loaded in his chassis. He can’t let himself run through the possibilities right now, not when he’s this close to Seaspray, not when the bot needed his help and needed it now.
He cranks the wheel forward a little harder than what would be considered polite. Still, she holds on, and the Jackhammer peels off through the asteroid field like they were trying to escape the pull of a black hole.
Her engines are running hot, roaring with pent-up fury, and Wheeljack knows that she’s just as mad as he is. The two of them narrowly skate between the asteroids, so close that Wheeljack can almost hear the rush of wind between the Jackhammer’s delicate wings and the hard rock, if not for the unfortunate vacuum of space.
What he does eventually hear is the pained creak of the hangar as an asteroid scrapes the left side, slowly rending the Jackhammer’s outer mesh into iron filings. Pellets of dislodged rock rain down on his cockpit glass like hellfire while the ship’s warnings blare in his audial fins louder than one of Ultra Magnus’ ‘impassioned speeches.’
“I know, girl, I know! Just hang tight!” Wheeljack shouts over her pained shrieks as the next asteroid barrels from the right. He grits his dentae, biting down on his glossa so hard that he tastes energon. He winces and whips the steering stick to the right so hard that his neck cabling cinches against his pauldron. The asteroid thumps against the berthroom viewing window, the telltale crack of glass rattling him helm to pede. He braces himself for the strained creak and the sudden shatter, and the sucking, grasping vacuum of space that is sure to follow suit. It never comes.
“Okay… just one more push. I know you’ve got it in ya.”
He steadies his shaking servos and surges forward, shooting through a gap in the crowded field in one final burst of power, following the line of debris with single-minded determination to reach the end.
The Jackhammer’s shrieks die down as they settle back into empty space, and Wheeljack is left alone in silence.
He heaves back into his seat and presses the back of his servo to his faceplate with a put-out sigh.
“Phew, you’ve still got it, old girl!” Wheeljack exclaims as he wipes the condensation from his helm. “Of course the salty old codger would make it as hard as possible on us… He’s gonna owe me a stellar cycles’ worth of fuel for you after this. And a nice repaint. Would you like tha—”
The Gray Maiden is idling in open space, nearly identical to the Jackhammer in all but name and paint. It took Seaspray eighty hundred stellar cycles’ worth of begging and pleading like a complete sod f or Wheeljack to finally relinquish the schematics of the Jackhammer’s design, and another twenty more before the mech actually finished the slagging thing. Of course, old Gray’s actual internal assembl y couldn’t compete with his beloved Jackhammer, but she did her job and did it well.
Now though, she’s a complete wreck. Her hull and cockpit were miraculously in-tact, but both of her wings were frayed like worn lace. Burn marks score the torn ends, yellow accents ending in mangled black edges. It seemed unlikely that the asteroid field could’ve caused this kind of damage. This was controlled damage, meant to immobilize, not incapacitate.
Realization replaces his fleeting relief and he’s fumbling for the transceiver frequency before his processor can catch up.
“Seaspray?! Seaspray, respond, it’s Wheeljack!” Silence. Deafening silence. “Come in, Seaspray! I’ve received your coordinates for rendezvous—”
“ So have I, Wrecker.”
Dread wells up from somewhere deep in his spark, so thick it seeps into his joints and clogs his vocalizer. He is painfully slow to pinpoint the source of the foreign comm, digits swiping clumsily on his console for any kind of positive identification on his craft. His databanks turn up nothing. He slams the console with his fist.
“You are awfully quiet, Wrecker. My informant tells me you’ve got quite a quick mouth and an even quicker trigger finger. Unless you aren’t Wheeljack ?”
“Who the slag are you?!” Wheeljack finally chokes out. “How do you know me? How do you know Seaspray? If you’ve hurt my boy, I swear to Primus I’ll—”
“It seems his information was reliable, then. What a pleasant surprise.” The voice hums, low and dismissive. “In any case, your… friend is unharmed. His communication frequency has been disabled for the time being. As for my designation, I am Dreadwing of the Decepticon Star Seekers and Brother of Skyquake.”
“Hmmm… Doesn’t ring a bell,” Wheeljack taunts despite his better judgment. He isn’t sure if he’s glad or not that thismech— Dreadwing— doesn’t so much as pause for a beat.
“I don’t expect Wreckers to be particularly versed in Autobot/Decepticon history, but that is of little consequence now. I know you wear the Autobot insignia, as does your compatriot. As such, you must both be disposed of.”
“Oh, Really?” Wheeljack scoffs. “And why don’t you come out and fight like a real mech? Not that I would expect that from a Decepticon. Star Seeker. Whatever the slag you are. Is your brother this cowardly?”
A growl emanates from the comm frequency channel and a smirk tugs at the edge of Wheeljack’s lip plating.
“I—Do not think that will be necessary, Autobot. I do not fight pointless battles, not when there are… easier ways to dispose of the likes of a Wrecker. Goodbye, Wheeljack. I will send your warm regards to Swindle.”
Wheeljack’s spark flips while his gyro stabilizes strain to keep his frame upright. His servos are dead weight on the console.
No. No, that wasn’t possible.
“Bastard!” Wheeljack snarls into the comm channel. His servos snap back onto the steering wheel and he guns it, straight for the Gray Maiden’s prone form despite his better judgment. “What the frag have you done—”
The comm line goes dead with a taunting hum, and he cries out in frustration. He wants to open the commline again to get some fragging answers. Then, a noise.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
It’s distant, yet terribly familiar. He could recognize that tick rate anywhere. Wheeljack doesn’t need to see the explosive to know it’s his. The sticky grenade.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
“Seaspray!”
His servos are too heavy and his processor is too slow. His spark is suspended in oily darkness, thick and oppressive like a hydraulic press. His senses are dull in that split second of gray half-existence, until the abyss surrounding him is lit with blinding white.
His frame cracks against the console and he tumbles back into darkness.
******
Wheeljack blinks up at Bulkhead, batting away at his blaring HUD like he was infested with adware. Wouldn’t be the first time. “ W-What do you mean, Bulk?” he stammers after a moment, resisting the urge to back away like a wounded mechanimal.
“I mean. How do you view our—ah, relationship?” Bulkhead supplies with a sheepish smile. “How do you feel about me?”
Wheeljack’s frame freezes while his processor races. His memory banks are working overtime in particular. He’s on a worksite with Bulkhead, then he’s on the battlefield, then he’s in his berth, and then he’s alone.
His spark is thrumming hard in its chassis while his systems heat to an uncomfortable degree. It was an unfortunate problem when he was anywhere near Bulkhead’s proximity, particularly now, with the mech’s undivided, serious attention. It’s too much data to quantify in any meaningful or appropriate answer. His defense systems move faster than his knowledge base. They supply a familiar answer. A safe answer.
“I thought it was obvious. You’re my best friend, mech!” Wheeljack forces out with so much conviction that he could almost believe it was the truth. He slings an arm over Bulkhead’s shoulder and pulls him in tight. “I wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less, big guy…We’re Wreckers after all. We gotta stick together, partner.”
“But…”
Hesitation. Another warning message flashes. He scrambles to take hold of the situation like tweezers guiding a wire. One wrong move, one faulty connection, and the entire thing could blow up in his faceplates.
“But what?” He tries, testing that fragile connection. He laughs and slaps Bulkhead on the back. “Are we not friends? Whose berth am I wakin’ up in, anyway?”
“Jackie, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Bulkhead retorts, and Wheeljack knows that’s not the right wire. Guilt flashes in Bulkhead’s optics. He presses his mouth into a thin line. He is uncertain. Uncertainty never boded well in work like this. “I just wanted to make sure before I…”
“Before what?”
“Before I have to leave, Jackie!”
His servos have slipped. He has sent home the wrong connection and now the wires are crossed. He jerks away from Bulkhead, as if burned.
“Are you joking right now, Bulk? ‘Cause I don’t find it all that funny, mech—”
Bulkhead’s silence, heavy and remorseful, is all the confirmation Wheeljack needs. He balls his servos into fists and shuts his optics tight. Bulkhead sighs, heavy and deep, as he takes a tentative step forward. Wheeljack shrinks away.
“...The Prime needed extra help,” Bulkhead tries after a minute. “I thought we’d better jump off this sinking ship before—”
“‘We?’” Wheeljack echoes with a scoff. “Do you think I’d ever leave the Wreckers, Bulkhead? Do you really think I’d leave everything we’ve built? Together?”
“You hate Magnus, though! I thought you’d be more than on-board—”
“Well, Bulk, you thought wrong. Yes, I hate Magnus. I hate his leadership, I hate his attitude—Pits—I hate his face. I hate everything about him. But what makes you think I’d ever join the slagger that sent Magnus here to wrangle us in the first place?”
Bulkhead says nothing. The look on the mech’s faceplates is enough to trigger the faulty wiring inside of him. He feels as if he’s collapsing from the inside-out. Total internal failure. Now, all he can do is watch as it all goes up in smoke.
Or. He could flee.
He accepts the ping on his HUD and turns his back to Bulkhead.
******
It takes a moment for Wheeljack’s sensory net to come back online, and even longer for his neural processor to register the stimulus that brought him crawling out of his unconscious mind. That being said, the warm energon soaking his trembling servo was a damn good indicator.
Wheeljack surges forward from his apparent place on the floor, only to double back over at the flaring pain in his side that was most definitely the aforementioned stimulus.
“ Frag…!” He hisses between gritted dentae as his servos fly up to grasp his throbbing hip that was leaking energon like it was on tap. The rest of his frame was marred with shallow scratches.
He surveys the rest of the Jackhammer’s visible features, the floor littered with glinting shrapnel and sparking wires while pipes hiss like angry cybercats. She was definitely damaged but miraculously functioning in some capacity. If she was dead, then she wouldn’t have the capacity to complain. A good sign.
He drags himself over to the command console and hauls himself up into his captain’s seat after an interminable number of painful and embarrassing cycles of struggle. He draws a shaky servo to activate the command center. Nothing. He tries a second time. Still nothing.
“Come on, old girl. Don’t give up on me now…!” Wheeljack complains as he beats the center console with a frustrated fist, once, twice, thrice. Suddenly, there’s a sharp whine of startup and the console comes alive with a flare of light. The emergency sirens are quick to follow suit.
“Okay, okay! I know, you’re beat to slag!” Wheeljack smoothes his palm under the central console and dismisses the sirens with a swipe of his digit. He is quick to run the diagnostic program for the rest of the damages that he couldn’t see. Most of the damage had been sloughed off by the Jackhammer’s armor hide, but that did not account for the sheer concussive force of the—
He slumps back in his chair. The Jackhammer had survived the blast. So had he. It doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be able to move and he shouldn’t be able to be her captain. Not after that.
His optics are drawn to the commline transceiver against his better judgment. It was perfectly intact. He hisses under his shallow breath, resisting the urge to uproot the receiver console from the wall just to see the dead wires sparking in his servos.
Wait. It was intact.
He fumbles to pull up the commline history, expecting nothing, and yet–
“The fragger didn’t even bother to mask his commline address.”
A shallow, grim laugh escapes his vocalizer, serving to agitate his still-soaked wound. He doesn’t care. His senses feel sharper, in-tune with the rest of his surroundings, as he loads the address into his mapping system.
“He’s heading for Earth… Tch.” The connection drives home realization strikes Wheeljack’s systems like metal touching a closed circuit. “ Bulkhead… No, no no, no—”
Wheeljack’s servos wrenches the steering wheel with so much intensity he was half-expecting to rip it out of the console. The Jackhammer creaks in pain and her frame rattles in a slightly concerning manner, but she shoots forward anyway. She’s as persistent as ever, just like he built her.
Already, he is setting his coordinates for that forlorn little mudball. He always knew he had to return someday, he just didn’t think it’d be so soon. Certainly not alone, certainly not as a failure. His servos tremble on the wheel. His HUD is ticking with warning.
How was he going to face Bulkhead?
He had turned his back strut on him that night—before the Prime had taken him away. He couldn’t even stay on Earth long enough to face Bulkhead on the organic soil like a real mech would.
His jaw ticks. He steels his grip on the wheel as his other servo swipes his mapping console. He had deleted his preset coordinates some time ago. Now, his digits manually punch in the coordinates with familiar, practiced ease.
4.53 MILLION LIGHT CYCLES FROM: TERRA-04 (EARTH)
He dismisses the warning from his safety measures in his HUD as the Jackhammer cuts through the endless void around him.
He couldn’t let Bulkhead down again. Their wires were entwined and Wheeljack had no intention of separating them anymore.
Dreadwing must die.